The Wedding

It was then that I knew what I had to do.

Chapter Two

I had to court my wife again.

It sounds so simple, doesn’t it? What could be easier? There were, after all, certain advantages to a situation like ours. For one thing, Jane and I live in the same house, and after three decades together, it’s not as though we had to start over. We could dispense with the family histories, the humorous anecdotes from our childhoods, the questions of what we did for a living and whether or not our goals were compatible. Furthermore, the surprises that individuals tend to keep hidden in the early stages of a relationship were already out in the open. My wife, for instance, already knew that I snore, so there was no reason to hide something like that from her. For my part, I’ve seen her when she’s been sick with the flu, and it makes no difference to me how her hair looks when she gets up in the morning.

Given those practical realities, I assumed that winning Jane’s love again would be relatively easy. I would simply try to re-create what we had had in our early years together—as Noah had done for Allie by reading to her. Yet upon further reflection, I slowly came to the realization that I’d never really understood what she saw in me in the first place. Though I think of myself as responsible, this was not the sort of trait women considered attractive back then. I was, after all, a baby boomer, a child of the hang-loose, me-first generation.

It was 1971 when I saw Jane for the first time. I was twenty-four, in my second year of law school at Duke University, and most people would have considered me a serious student, even as an undergraduate. I never had a roommate for more than a single term, since I often studied late into the evenings with the lamp blazing. Most of my former roommates seemed to view college as a world of weekends separated by boring classes, while I viewed college as preparation for the future.

While I’ll admit that I was serious, Jane was the first to call me shy. We met one Saturday morning at a coffee shop downtown. It was early November, and due to my responsibilities at the Law Review, my classes seemed particularly challenging. Anxious about falling behind in my studies, I’d driven to a coffee shop, hoping to find a place to study where I wouldn’t be recognized or interrupted.

It was Jane who approached the table and took my order, and even now, I can recall that moment vividly. She wore her dark hair in a ponytail, and her chocolate eyes were set off by the hint of olive in her skin. She was wearing a dark blue apron over a sky blue dress, and I was struck by the easy way she smiled at me, as if she were pleased that I had chosen to sit in her section. When she asked for my order, I heard the southern drawl characteristic of eastern North Carolina.

I didn’t know then that we would eventually have dinner together, but I remember going back the following day and requesting the same table. She smiled when I sat down, and I can’t deny that I was pleased that she seemed to remember me. These weekend visits went on for about a month, during which we never struck up a conversation or asked each other’s names, but I soon noticed that my mind began to wander every time she approached the table to refill my coffee. For a reason I can’t quite explain, she seemed always to smell of cinnamon.

To be honest, I wasn’t completely comfortable as a young man with those of the opposite sex. In high school, I was neither an athlete nor a member of the student council, the two most popular groups. I was, however, quite fond of chess and started a club that eventually grew to eleven members. Unfortunately, none of them were female. Despite my lack of experience, I had managed to go out with about half a dozen women during my undergraduate years and enjoyed their company on those evenings out. But because I’d made the decision not to pursue a relationship until I was financially ready to do so, I didn’t get to know any of these women well and they quickly slipped from my mind.

Yet frequently after leaving the coffee shop, I found myself thinking of the ponytailed waitress, often when I least expected it. More than once, my mind drifted during class, and I would imagine her moving through the lecture hall, wearing her blue apron and offering menus. These images embarrassed me, but even so, I was unable to prevent them from recurring.

I have no idea where all of this would have led had she not finally taken the initiative. I had spent most of the morning studying amid the clouds of cigarette smoke that drifted from other booths in the diner when it began to pour. It was a cold, driving rain, a storm that had drifted in from the mountains. I had, of course, brought an umbrella with me in anticipation of such an event.

When she approached the table I looked up, expecting a refill for my coffee, but noticed instead that her apron was tucked beneath her arm. She removed the ribbon from her ponytail, and her hair cascaded to her shoulders.

“Would you mind walking me to my car?” she asked. “I noticed your umbrella and I’d rather not get wet.”

It was impossible to refuse her request, so I collected my things, then held the door open for her, and together we walked through puddles as deep as pie tins. Her shoulder brushed my own, and as we splashed across the street in the pouring rain, she shouted her name and mentioned the fact that she was attending Meredith, a college for women. She was majoring in English, she added, and hoped to teach school after she graduated. I didn’t offer much in response, concentrating as I was on keeping her dry. When we reached her car, I expected her to get in immediately, but instead she turned to face me.

“You’re kind of shy, aren’t you,” she said.

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond, and I think she saw this in my expression, for she laughed almost immediately.

“It’s okay, Wilson. I happen to like shy.”

That she had somehow taken the initiative to learn my name should have struck me then, but it did not. Instead, as she stood on the street with the rain coming down and mascara running onto her cheeks, all I could think was that I’d never seen anyone more beautiful.

My wife is still beautiful.

Of course, it’s a softer beauty now, one that has deepened with age. Her skin is delicate to the touch, and there are wrinkles where it once was smooth. Her h*ps have become rounder, her stomach a little fuller, but I still find myself filled with longing when I see her undressing in the bedroom.

We’ve made love infrequently these last few years, and when we did, it lacked the spontaneity and excitement we’d enjoyed in the past. But it wasn’t the lovemaking itself I missed most. What I craved was the long-absent look of desire in Jane’s eyes or a simple touch or gesture that let me know she wanted me as much as I longed for her. Something, anything, that would signal I was still special to her.